(Note: Please note I was still using my first name when I wrote this eleven years ago. Call it vanity, call it tripe, call it home, but this story, now published, means that every thing I have ever “submitted” somewhere has been “accepted.” Boowahahaha. ‘t is of the season and has the distinction of getting rejected twice by Literally Stories though submitted only once. What Einstein said about madness can also be attributed to persistence–Merry Christmas! Leila)

I’ve recently stacked my Internet access up to Heaven. Literally. Though pricey, I find BehindThePearlyGates.com (BTPG) worth the expense. The site gives me an up close and personal glimpse into the fey doings of God’s government (which, interestingly, is about as organized as that of a pirate ship). Just the other day I signed in and found myself connected to a scandal that had been lurking on the books since 1843.

Upon signing in to the site, a precocious and sometimes indigestible little boy Angel named Somerset ( whose voice comes off like that of Truman Capote being channeled through a rubber ducky), greets you by name and proceeds to give you the dish on what’s on the dock that day. Sometimes it’s Soul Judging (my personal favorite), other times it’s Smiting (“Yee-ouch,” according to Somerset), and once in awhile God will just sit there and go on a rant about the lack of clarity in prayers. There’s never a dull moment at BTPG.

All the action takes place in the Great Hall, which is nothing but a blinding white expanse in which only God, a throne , and whomever God has a beef with are present.

I see God as a short, somewhat rumpled woman who has a talent for losing her left earring during the scrum of the day. This is because God has arranged it that when you look at and listen to her you see and hear yourself–even though nothing God does or says is likely to remind you of yourself. It doesn’t matter how many people look at and listen to God at the same time, everybody “gets” him- or herself. Even the visually and hearing impaired “see” and “hear” their shapes and tones in their mind’s eye. However, this isn’t done to bring us closer to God. Since we are beings that have free will, God reflects your form as a reminder of whose fault it is when things go wrong between the two of you.

Somerset announced that the scandal involved the Three Ghosts of Christmas. And as the “Triumvirate” stood nervously before God on her throne (a seat that adjusts to its beholder), I had no doubt that each member of the “Treacherous Trio” (as snarky little Somerset kept calling them) that each one saw himself seated there, examining a scroll, and making unhappy noises to himself. The Ghosts appeared to be rightfully mortified, and judging from the sideways glances they cast between each other, it seemed to me that each Ghost was considering throwing the other two under the bus, so to speak.

God suddenly tossed the scroll into the air and it vanished with a “foom” and puff of green smoke. She (as me) leaned forward and smiled at the Ghosts. (Oh, I had been working an apricot ascot and an old time pince nez at work that day, which has nothing to do with anything other than I like bragging my thrift store finds up.)

“Tell me, Ghost of Christmas Past,” God said sweetly to an individual who looked like a clean shaven garden gnome, “I’ve got three trillion prayers on hold–Which do I answer, which do I cast into the pit?”

Even though he was very small, the Ghost spoke with a cultured baritone voice. “Why I’d be lost, Your Highness, for I lack Your infinite wisdom.”

“Present!” God called out to the middle Ghost who looked an awful lot like a Hell’s Angel in drag.

“What would you do in the given situation. And if I really were you, I’d be careful not to feed me the same bullshit that your brother has tried to serve up.”

Both the Past and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come sidestepped away from their middle brother as though he had cholera. The consensus in various BTPG chatrooms has no love lost between the Present and his siblings, and that when it comes to bus throwing under, he is without peer. Of course the Triumvirate already knew what they were on the carpet of all carpets for, but only the Present was rash enough to make an early mention of it, which is exactly what he proceeded to do. “Your Majesty,” the Ghost of Christmas Present said with a gruff yet gregarious voice, “I know of no prayers addressed to me for I am a humble servant, but I do know that these two here,” he added with an all inclusive left-to-right shift of his eyes, “and old Marley had been as thick as thieves, if Your Grace will pardon the expression.”

A sour expression fell over God’s face. I didn’t know that my face was so good at conveying contempt.

“To Come!” God called energetically to a gangly, seven-foot Goth body-hoodie who held a staff in one bony hand. Even though the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come showed no visage, the spirit had affected a “too cool for school” posture that God had obviously picked up on and did not like. The Ghost started at hearing his name, but he quickly regained his insolent composure.

“How nice that you’re awake,” God said. “I know you don’t speak, but if you’ll favor me with one thump of your stick for yay, two for neigh, I ask, do you hold with tattlers?”

A pair of enthusiastic wallops echoed through the Great Hall.

“Neither do I,” God said. “But now that the subject of this interview has been awkwardly and prematurely brought to light, I feel that I best remind all of you that further lying, backstabbing, and disrespect might prevent a still possible happy ending. Am I clear?”

The Ghosts, even the mute To Come, assured God that she had been clear. Crystal, if you’ll pardon the expression.

The scroll that had foomed and puffed out of existence earlier, reappeared in God’s hands. She read from it aloud:

“On 24 December 1843, a punished soul by the name of Jacob Marley visited his odious former business partner, one Ebeneezer Scrooge, of London. Marley proceeded to give Scrooge insider information on what would happen to him after death if Scrooge didn’t mend his stingy, evil ways.” God looked up from the scroll and trained her gaze on the Present. “Sirrah, please be so good as to refresh me on what happens to usuers and misers upon crossover.”

The Ghost of Christmas Present cleared his throat and said, “They must carry a chain that they had girded on willingly in life, then walk among their fellow beings after death for not having done so in life.”

“And?”

“Um-well,” the ghost stammered, “they are to lament the situation because they have lost their power to interfere on behalf of the good, My Liege.”

“Would you also be as kind to tell everyone who decides on both the punishment and how long it shall last?”

“You, on both accounts,” the Present mumbled.

“Come again?”

“You, Your Grace.”

God then trained her gaze on the Ghost of Christmas Past. “You’ve been around long enough to know that every single groaning spirit claims that his or her punishment exceeds the crime, and that they have been made to suffer forever–even though it is known to all that I will eventually unclap their chains, after a suitable interval, and then place them in a position from which they may rise or fall on the strength of his or her imagination. Old Marley had been in evil business for three-and-twenty years; I was going to keep him fettered for six-and-forty. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that someone had improved his situation after just seven years had passed.”

The Ghosts found the floor extremely interesting.

God continued: “Your actions restored Marley’s power to do good. You allowed him to go to Scrooge with a warning. When that didn’t work, the three of you, on Marley’s behest, got it across to the old bastard that Marley hadn’t been kidding.”

God rose to her feet and began to pace tro in fro with obviously mock concentration. She rubbed her chin and said, “Funny, I don’t recall greenlighting this project. Nor do I recall anyone proposing this sort of scheme. Maybe I’m getting old. It’s either that or someone has made a very bold move.”

Suddenly, a historic event occurred in Heaven. a real stunner. It even caused Sommerset to drop an F-Bomb in the background. The ever-silent ghost of Christmas Yet to Come spoke: “But you said we could have free will,” a positively angst-ridden, teenage boy-like voice screeched.

I had never seen God taken by surprise before. “When did that thing learn how to speak?” She asked the room in general.

“Hey,” To Come screeched some more, “I’m right here! People shake in their shoes when they see me coming, so how about a little respect?”

“My apologies,” God said. “And you’re right, you do have free will, but it wouldn’t be worth much if there weren’t consequences for using it. However, I am willing to admit that this little stunt you’ve pulled off has turned out well. It was done for the sake of kindness and hope. And to prove to my naysayers who claim I’m a vicious bully, I will not take actions against anyone involved, even though each one of you have it coming.”

A great, palpable relief swept over the Ghosts. This was going much better than any of them had dared to dream. Still, I’ve been on the site enough to know that God is most dangerous in the “however.”

“However,” God said, “this doesn’t mean that there won’t be some necessary changes made. The Triumvirate will continue to serve in its time honored manner, but there are three things we need to address before we can set this business aside forever.”

The Ghost of Christmas Past sensed that God needed to hear something from the group, if only to set up her rehearsed lines. “How may we please Your Highness?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” she said. “The first matter is a condition not subject to alteration: pull another end-around like this one in the future, and there’ll be a sudden need for the Three Ghosts of Feces–Are we met?”

Oh, yes, yes indeedy.

“Two is the big one,” God said. “You see, when you altered Scrooge, you altered the life path of one Timothy Cratchit who died nine-and-eighty years later than he should have. Master Cratchit expressed his gratitude by siring eleven children, who in turn added an average of nine persons apiece to the population, and so forth. Lots and lots of and so forth. Enough and so forth to fill a medium-sized city, nowadays. Since the Triumvirate is responsible for these persons, it gets to be God to them. You’ll get the opportunity to watch free will exercised by this randy clan all over the globe. You will listen to their prayers and keep track of their sins. You will endure the blame they cast at me when the things they do go wrong. You will decide how each one will be classified upon his and her reckonings. Is that clear?”

It was everything but clear, but the Ghosts kept that to themselves.

“It’s a big job,” God said, “I recommend that you divide the world in thirds. And I don’t want to hear any whining about this, either. I do seven billion plus, each and every minute of each and every day. You’d better get busy.”

“But you said there were three things,” To Come whined. For a second I thought that the Present was going to take the Future’s staff away from him and cudgel the punk with it.

“Ah, that’s right,” God said. No one had been fooled into believing that she had actually forgotten something, yet that doesn’t stop her from pretending to do so from time to time. ”Just for the sake of my own curiosity, what moved the three of you to do such a thing?”

The Past spoke for the Triumvirate: “A man named Dickens tells a wonderful tale, Sire. We got the idea from him.”

An incredulous expression bloomed in God’s face (since she was me, I recognized the expression as the one I must have had on my face the first time I watched Red Dwarf). Then she began to laugh, long and hard. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and they took the remainder of my morning mascara with them, which caused God to look like a raccoon. She finally gained her composure, saw that the Ghosts were staring at her, and said: “You’re still here?”

The Ghosts took the hint and wasted no time getting gone.

One of the coolest perks that subscribers get for signing up (and of course, paying for) with BTPG.com, is a personal word from God at the conclusion of that day’s business.

“Irene Allison!” God bellowed. “I know you are watching due to the slovenly shape I’ve taken.” Her/my face filled my screen.

“Yes, O Spell Checker of the Soul, how may I be of service,” I replied.

“Your family hails from Ireland, does it not?”

“Yes,” I said. “That thing you did to the potatoes in the nineteenth-century made immigrating to America necessary.”

“”How I love the Irish, and not for just their long memories. You, Irene, have a spot of English in you as well.”

“A Cratchit?” I asked. “But weren’t they a fictional family?”

“We observe no difference between the made up and the natural born here in Heaven,” God said. “If something invented sticks and prospers, it’s the same as real in my mind.”

“So you’ve got a Wizard of Oz, a Dracula, and Old mother Hubbard, up there?”

“Precisely.”

“May I ask what it was that you found so funny earlier?” When I asked that, something inside my mind groaned. I’ve often been exposed to God’s surprisingly puerile sense of humor. the thing that groaned articulated itself, and told me that I had just done what God had wanted me to do.

“You write, don’t you, Irene?” God asked, and I spied a juvenile glee in her/my eyes. “I mean, you’re hardly Jane Austen, but you do scribbles, do you not?”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you know what writers are, Irene?” Here, God had difficulty not laughing halfway through her own straight line. Now, I knew what was coming, but when you are conversing with the Supreme Being of the Universe, it’s best to play along.

“They’re humbug! Humbug! I tell you!” God said. And she began laughing and snorting laughter out her nose (this is one embarrassing to look at item that I have never done). I thought I had heard her little toady Somerset join in with her laughter. This is when I quietly signed out of the site and went into the kitchen to fix myself a martini. A double.

I thought I saw the shape of the Ghost of Yet to Come reflected in the door of my microwave. He was writing something on a scroll and shaking his head in a tut tut sort of way. I laid a dish towel over the microwave and made my drink a triple.